


And He'll Drown in Colors

by isuilde



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Anime, prompt by mystearika
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Saruhiko's eyes, Misaki is forever made of colors. Colors that blurs and comes out anew, a vibrant existence that's the only clear thing in Saruhiko's world.</p>
<p>Saruhiko, dealing with Misaki after the Ashinaka High Incident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And He'll Drown in Colors

**Author's Note:**

> A chat with mystearika months ago results in her giving me a prompt: “In Saruhiko’s eyes, Misaki’s color is always the brightest.” Or something along that line. I tried a different take on the prompt, wrote, scrapped and rewrote it for probably a hundred times, and finally gave up. Sorry about that, mate. Hopefully this doesn’t turn out to be too bad. /sobs

In Saruhiko’s eyes, Misaki is forever made of colors.

He’s a blur of white and red and orange that reminds Saruhiko of abstract layers spreading on around the horizon before the sun leans down to kiss it. He’s a splash of blue and ash black and grey when he flies down the street on his skateboard, arms spread like he’s about to embrace the sky, a perfect portrait of a wild existence and freedom untamed. He takes in his surrounding colors, blends them into himself and lets the colors back out in a wild streak of vibrant new color Saruhiko can’t put a name on—a color that’s mostly red but also yellow and green and purple and white and everything, everything, everything.

The red is usually most vibrant, because Misaki is part of HOMRA through and through, and Saruhiko hates that, wants to tear the red apart with his bare hands and clutch the colors into his chest, but he can’t. He can’t, because Misaki still grins, still laughs like an idiot, still smiles, still yells, still shouts, still rages. Still hates.

Saruhiko accepts the hatred, too. Loves the thrill from it, because it is part of Misaki’s color, and Misaki’s color is the only one that paints his world while everything else is a dull, muted, dying splotch of pixels.

**——-o0o——-**

Sometimes, when he was still in HOMRA, Saruhiko would get into quiet arguments with Anna.

“Mikoto’s red is so bright,” she says.

“Mikoto-san’s red is dull,” Saruhiko returns. “Misaki’s color is more blinding.”

“That’s because Saruhiko doesn’t understand Mikoto’s red,” she says simply. “Mikoto’s red is always bright and warm.”

“That’s because you can’t see Misaki’s color,” Saruhiko replies. He watches the corners of her lips tighten in irritation, but he stays silent even as Totsuka comes over and pulls Anna into his lap.

"What are we doing?” Totsuka asks cheerfully. Saruhiko glances at him to see Anna looking up, small hands reaching up to pat Totsuka’s cheeks.

“Totsuka’s red is the kindest.”

She closes the argument just like that, because it’s one thing that Saruhiko never disagrees with her.

**——-o0o——-**

When the Red King dies, their insignias are taken away as the last gift from the King to his Princess. The night sky is alight with brilliant red for a second, but they quickly dim in Saruhiko’s eyes, because this red belongs to someone who is already dead.

All that’s left on Saruhiko’s chest is a scar.

All that’s left on Misaki’s chest, Saruhiko finds out much, much later, are marks of nails biting into skin, forming a rough sketch of HOMRA’s crest.

**——-o0o——-**

He doesn’t see Misaki for days after the incident on Ashinaka Gakuen.

Munakata disappears from time to time, eyes going duller and duller every time Saruhiko sees him. It’s troublesome, because that means all the workload fall into the hands of Awashima and Saruhiko, and Saruhiko swears to kill Munakata for that at least five times a day. He doesn’t, though. Because sometimes he spots Tenrou in Munakata’s office, abandoned but still locked, and wonders if Munakata ever wiped away Mikoto’s blood on the blade.

The Blue King hasn’t touched it since the day of the incident, never brings it outside, never even spares it a glance.

It’s not like Munakata absolutely needs Tenrou to fight. Saruhiko thinks Munakata probably wants Tenrou to stay that way, perhaps in an attempt of atonement for killing another King. The thought is hilarious, because Mikoto’s death isn’t even Munakata’s fault, but then he looks back at the tight smile on Munakata’s face and wonders if it is an attempt to atone a sin of killing a  _friend_  instead.

Or maybe more than a friend. It isn’t something Saruhiko can understand anyway.

Saruhiko doesn’t understand the suffering and problems Kings face, just as the Kings never understand the suffering and problems petty people like him struggle with.

**——-o0o——-**

The blue color of SCEPTER 4 is fading in his world, the way HOMRA did.

When Munakata comes back, he brings along a report about a serial killer suspected to be a Strain. They all watch the recording, watch the Strain goes through a solid wall, watch the Strain sticks his hand into his target’s chest, watch him pulls out a heart and crushes it inside his clutch. It’s a fascinating power, to be able to only touch things you wish to touch and go through things you don’t want to touch like they’re thin air. It is also terrifying and troublesome.

Saruhiko hears about HOMRA members scattering everywhere three weeks later, and in a matter of days, Awashima strides into the office with her hair undone, falling into elegant curls on her shoulders, framing her frustrated frown. Her steps are brisk and her stature straight as usual, though, even as she hurriedly pulls her hair up into her usual hairdo.

“I’m sorry for being late,” she begins, all poised and composed and graceful as she takes the command. Saruhiko chooses not to comment, but when the day ends, he asks, because he knows Awashima comes to the bar sometimes.

Maybe he shouldn’t have asked.

"Kushina Anna is missing, as well as Kamamoto Rikio.” Awashima murmurs. “And that idiot owner of a bar is doing nothing but sitting in that bar by himself and watching old records Totsuka Tatara left all day.”

**——-o0o——-**

This is how he meets Misaki again for the first time after the incident:

He’s walking down the road after a mission with a loose and violent strain (a rat that could manipulate its size to be five times bigger than humans, what the fuck), smelling like the city’s waterdump tunnel and wet and irritated, and then he sees Misaki sitting by the river from behind.

“What are you doing?” he drawls, watches Misaki’s back stiffening, but the shorter boy doesn’t turn around.

“Fuck off, Traitor,” Misaki says. His voice is harsh and steady—at least he isn’t crying. Saruhiko sits down next to him and takes a look, sees the black and blue and purple bruises on Misaki’s face and neck, and can’t not reach out to touch. Misaki slaps his hand away.

Saruhiko hides his flinch behind a smirk. “What kind of trouble did you get into now, Mi-sa-ki…?”

Misaki shoots him a glare—angry and frustrated and very sad at the same time—the corners of his mouth tighten. He opens his mouth, closes it, hesitates, then opens it again. There’s a notable strain in his voice when he says, “there are moves I can’t do without the flames.”

Saruhiko hears all the things unsaid, hovering in the air between the two of them, stark white and nearly transparent.  _I’m not as fast. I’m not as strong. I can only fight so much._  But he can’t point them out, because he can already see the spark of red that is frustration tight in every muscle in Misaki’s body, and while Saruhiko loves to taunt Misaki, loves to get a raise out of him, he doesn’t like doing it when Misaki is helpless.

So he says instead, “you want power.”

Misaki tilts his head just so, and Saruhiko watches as his face is awashed by different colors—sunset red that bleeds into his hair and gleaming blueof the water smoothing the black and purple on his face, a hint of green on the edges from the grass. Even now Misaki is made of colors, colors that blurs and comes out anew, a vibrant existence that’s the only clear thing in Saruhiko’s world.

“I don’t need power,” Misaki mutters sullenly, but there’s want lacing his voice, and Saruhiko wonders if once he sounded like that, too.

**——-o0o——-**

The bar is deserted.

Sometimes people come; those who will never stop being a HOMRA even though their King is no more, those who desperately seek to keep their bond as it is. Kusanagi always leaves the back door unlocked, but less and less people are coming there. Saruhiko doesn’t understand at first, and he’s honestly surprised at how easy it is for HOMRA’s bond to shatter into pieces like that after Mikoto’s death.

Saruhiko follows Misaki from time to time, watches him going inside the bar and out again before the day ends. The bar opens at odd hours now; Saruhiko catches Awashima grumbling under her breath about inconvenience, and he nearly opens his mouth to ask why Awashima never goes to another bar, but manages to bite the question back.

**——-o0o——-**

Misaki gets into a fight; six versus one, and he wins it.

Saruhiko merely watches from a safe distance, because Misaki is most brilliant when he stands in golden victory, even with the darkening bruises on his cheeks and the blood on the corner of his lips. He watches as Misaki spits on his opponents, shouts out “don’t you fucking dare showing your goddamn asses around here again, fucking traitors!” with fists trembling in rage.

One of his opponents looks up indignantly. “It’s over, Yata-san! We’re no more—HOMRA is over!”

Misaki roars and bashes him on the head. No one else dares to move until Misaki finally storms off in pure white fury, the glittering gold of victory and satisfaction lining the edges of his figure, and Saruhiko has to close his eyes because sometimes Misaki is simply too blinding.

**——-o0o——-**

It’s the dead of the night when his phone rings. Once-twice-thrice, and Saruhiko puts down the knife he’s polishing with a click of his tongue before snatching his phone, answering it without sparing a glance on the caller’s id.

Misaki’s voice in his ear sounds breathless, like he can’t quite get enough oxygen. Saruhiko stiffens.

“Misaki?”

“Saru—“ it’s a sob, and it sends ice piercing through Saruhiko’s existence, freezing him in inexplicable fear.

“What happened?” his grip on the phone tightens. “Where are you?”

For a moment, only breathless sobs are coming from the other side of the phone. It scares Saruhiko, because he’s a Traitor and Misaki hates traitors and Misaki will never call those he hates, much less cry in their presence. Something must be terribly wrong, so Saruhiko stands up and reaches for his coat, nearly stumbling into the table on his haste to get out of the house.

When he opens the door, Misaki is there, curling into a ball of hopelessness on the floor. Saruhiko’s so surprised he actually takes a step backwards, but Misaki isn’t looking up, and Saruhiko still hears him sobbing on the phone.

“What the fuck,” Saruhiko says, because he doesn’t know how he should react at this. He sees Misaki’s shoulders shudder, and he’s made of darker colors now, as if the night sky bleeds into his shadow and envelopes him in its embrace, illuminated by the dim light of Saruhiko’s apartment. Misaki looks up, and Saruhiko sees his bloodshot eyes, sees the dark circle around his eyes, sees the blue and purple bruises; the colors a mismatch with the the vibrant color of his existence, like a red cloth burnt black and singed at the edges.

“Saruhiko—“ Misaki’s voice comes from the phone, louder and clearer even as Saruhiko watches his mouth moves silently. “What should I do?”

**——-o0o——-**

He makes tea. Misaki doesn’t touch it. He also hasn’t said a word since Saruhiko lets him inside his apartment. So Saruhiko lets him be, lets Misaki curl up on the couch as if he’s trying to make himself small enough to be invisible, and goes back to polishing the knives instead.

He’s on his fourth knife when Misaki finally mumbles, voice tight but shattering at the edges, “it really is over.”

Saruhiko looks up, clicks his tongue. “That’s what you got for playing pretend, Mi-sa-ki.”

“Fuck you,” Misaki hisses, but the words sound broken in Saruhiko’s ears. “You were once one of ours, dumbass! Don’t you care at all? Don’t you fucking care—“ Misaki heaves a breath and it catches on his throat with a strangled sound that makes Saruhiko wince. “Th-that Kusanagi-san—he’s—“

“That’s what people do,” Saruhiko answers, tilting his knife just so that it reflects Misaki’s figure. It tints Misaki’s shadow silver, but the glare that pierces him is burning red. “They leave. That’s what they do, don’t they?” He lifts the knife and kisses its sharp edge, presses it hard enough that it draws blood from his lips. It drips down to the handle; Saruhiko follows it with his tongue. It fills his mouth with the taste of copper, sharp and bitter. “That’s why I’m only interested in flesh and blood.”

Misaki seems like he’s about to yell again, but he closes his eyes, and just like that he deflates completely. Saruhiko watches him on the knife, the way he tilts his head back and goes limp on the couch, a hand thrown across his face like he’s been exhausted for a long time.

“He said I shouldn’t be selfish,” he whispers, the words fading as soon as they leave his lips. His tone turns raw, like he’s swallowing back the onslaught of emotions in his throat. “Kusanagi-san. He said HOMRA is over.”

Saruhiko chooses not to say about how HOMRA has always been a dull red in his world, chooses not to say how HOMRA’s red has been fading since Totsuka’s death.

Misaki chuckles, each syllable comes out in jagged piece, broken and shattered in the air. He makes a painful sound on the back of his throat, and Saruhiko remembers a night sky alight with a thousand little red glows, remembers soft red trailing behind boisterous laughter in a certain bar, remembers a fire the color of darkest red, smoldering slowly into the black of smoke and ash.

Those reds are dull, muted colors. But they have been a part of Saruhiko’s world, and watching them fade so easily gives him a sense of loss somehow. He doesn’t like it, but he hates it even more because it turns Misaki’s red into an odd shade, flickering in places, and Saruhiko knows it is grief and hopelessness.

“What should I do…” Misaki murmurs, weak and painful and helpless. “Where should I go? Saruhiko?”

The King is gone, and the clan is destroyed.

**——-o0o——-**

It is not power that Misaki loses the most.

It is somewhere to belong.

Saruhiko cannot understand, because Saruhiko doesn’t need a place to belong. It is Misaki that he needs, only Misaki, and that’s good enough for him, because he doesn’t need anything else. If he can’t have Misaki’s laughter and happiness at him, then Saruhiko will take his hatred. It is all the same for him, because it is all part of Misaki’s color, bright and vibrant and blinding against his dull world.

But Misaki is different, because Misaki is an idiot. An idiot who desperately craves for somewhere to belong. An idiot who finds a place in HOMRA and loses it in a blink of an eye.

**——-o0o——-**

He traces the marks of nail forming a rough sketch of HOMRA’s insignia on Misaki’s skin with his fingertips.

Maybe if he presses hard enough, it’ll draw blood again.

Misaki leans up to kiss him, floundering and lost, with a sob caught in his throat and wordless emotions pooling on his tongue. It tastes salty when Saruhiko swallows them whole, as he tilts Misaki’s head back and deepens the kiss like he can’t get enough. He feels Misaki’s breath hitch, feels the vibration when Misaki lets out a broken groan. The worlds is a burst of colors under his eyelids, painted by the way Misaki’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, by the way Misaki’s lips and tongue chase his, by the way their breath mingle and becomes the only oxygen Saruhiko can suck in.

He grips Misaki’s hips tight, presses onward to draw out a harsh gasp from the shorter boy, and watches his name stutters itself out of Misaki’s lips.

“Saru—ah, f-fuck—“

Misaki burns under his fingertips, gorgeous and vibrant and hot as Saruhiko molds their bodies into one. He’s drowning in colors, flashing red-bright orange-blinding yellow-soothing green-clear blue-pitch black, all moving in tandem with Misaki’s breath, Misaki’s existence, Misaki’s life.

Only in such times that Saruhiko’s world becomes so beautiful.

“Misaki—“

This is where Saruhiko belongs.

**———o0o——-**

“Your color is still the brightest,” Saruhiko says into Misaki’s hair quietly. Misaki is still and silent in his embrace, asleep under the pressure of grief snd exhaustion, and Saruhiko wonders how hard Misaki’s been trying to mend HOMRA’s breaking bond by himself.

What a joke, Saruhiko thinks. All of them boasting about their bond all the time, and here they are leaving Misaki to struggle alone. What the fuck is Kusanagi-san doing anyway, at a time like this?

Totsuka-san wouldn’t have approved. Mikoto-san…

Mikoto-san is gone.

His dull red has faded completely.

Saruhiko closes his eyes, counts the dull colors left in his world and compares them with the bright existence that is Misaki, and whispers, “please don’t ever fade.”

**——-o0o——-**

Misaki is someone who wears his heart on his sleeves.

He is also someone who feels things with his whole being, who throws his focus into one thing, who blitzes through the world with a single-minded focus. It is why he is a fucking idiot, Saruhiko thinks, but it is also why Saruhiko cannot ever look away from his figure.

But it also means that Misaki feels things a thousand times stronger than anyone else. It is exactly because he loves and hates with his whole being that he’s so easy to hurt, to rile up, to  _love_. In Saruhiko’s eyes, forever, Misaki is always leaving himself too open for everyone to see. It’s dangerous, what Misaki does, but it’s also why his colors are so vivid even behind Saruhiko’s closed eyes.

“Saruhiko,” Misaki murmurs. “What should I do?”

His voice is thick, not only with grief and desperation, but also something that almost sounds like giving up. Saruhiko nearly doesn’t recognize it.

It is then that he looks. Really looks at Misaki, at the hunched shoulders and the tired eyes, at the slack fingers that no longer make fists.

It is only then he realizes that Misaki’s color is slowly fading.

**——-o0o——-**

On the next few weeks, the bruises thicken and multiply. Blue and black and purple, like dark rainbows criss-crossing Misaki’s whole body. Saruhiko plants a kiss on each one, bites on the darkest ones, and listens to Misaki’s harsh gasps with a distant fear, because something with Misaki’s color is wrong.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

“Stop picking fights,” he drawls when Misaki pulls on his pants, pressing a finger on a bruise on Misaki’s shoulder. “You were completely beaten up the other day, weren’t you.”

Misaki stiffens. “Not your problem,” he mumbles, and then punctuates it with a glare. “How do you know anyway?”

“If it’s about Misaki, I know everything.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Misaki mutters, irritation lacing his voice. “Don’t treat me like a fucking weak trash just because I have no power anymore.” He pauses, his face hardening. “I can still fight.”

For what, Saruhiko wants to ask, but swallows it back because there’s a pale blue tinting Misaki’s lips, and he chooses to kiss it instead.

**——-o0o——-**

Misaki comes home to his apartment every night, nowadays.

Sometimes he comes after Saruhiko’s home, sometimes he comes before Saruhiko’s home and sits down in front of the door, waiting like a good dog (and Saruhiko is reminded of how the HOMRA members sometimes treats Misaki like a pet dog, what the fuck). More often, Saruhiko comes home to a door lock already picked and Misaki asleep on his couch.

They eat together most of the time; Saruhiko would never refuse Misaki’s cooking even if he’s already eaten. He starts stocking the fridge again after Misaki grumbles about how empty it is, and snickers at the fact that he’s having regular breakfast and dinner at home now. It’s ridiculous, but he sort of likes the lazy atmosphere that Misaki brings on the evenings.

Misaki yells a lot, but he doesn’t say much. He’s usually already awake when Saruhiko wakes up, and by the time Saruhiko’s done with the shower, he’s always gone. He never tells Saruhiko where he’s going, but there are always new bruises replacing old ones when Saruhiko touches him at night, so he has a pretty good idea what Misaki’s doing.

It goes on for several weeks until Saruhiko wordlessly tosses his spare keys over his shoulder at Misaki before he goes into the shower. Misaki looks up, honest surprise flashing bright on his eyes, but none of them says anything.

_If Misaki is desperately looking for somewhere to belong_ , Saruhiko thinks, _then his place should be with me._

**——-o0o——-**

The Blue Clan headquarter is a panicking mess when Awashima Seri returns with severe injuries.

Punctured lungs, severe blood loss, shattered ribs and a broken arm, they said. Saruhiko feels the slow anger crawling up from his stomach to his throat, feels his stomach churn when Munakata takes him to visit the vice-commander at the hospital. Awashima is awake when they came, her face a fierce determination despite its pale complexion and the oxygen mask helping her breathing. Saruhiko thinks he has very good reasons to be scared of this female, and not just because her obsession with red bean paste.

Munakata’s knuckles are white when they leave.

The elusive serial killer Strain is still at large. It’s rare to see Munakata takes up an ivestigation by himself, but it’s even rarer to see his face tight and frustrated. Tenrou is still left untouched, and it’s only when Munakata assembles them to set out and chase the Strain, Saruhiko finally gestures to the abandoned sword and says, “that.”

Munakata raises an eyebrow. “What about it?”

“Aren’t you going to bring that?”

Munakata stays silent for several moments, then gives him a slight smile. “There’s no need for that yet.”

He crosses the room and pats Saruhiko on the shoulder as he goes past. Saruhiko glances at Tenrou one last time, imagines the red stain on its blade that must have turned black by now, and turns to follow his King.

**——-o0o——-**

When the Strain gets ahold of his arm, Saruhiko manages to spit out a curse before feeling his arm bone snaps into two.

He stumbles, blindsided with the momentary pain that explodes behind his eyelids, only hazily hears Domyouji shouting his name. Then there’s a blur of blue, and Saruhiko watches as Munakata envokes his Sanctum, and the Strain doubles back in a grace worthy of a gawk, before disappearing into an alley.

“Chase him!” Munakata bellows, and the other members of SCEPTER 4 scramble forward. “We have the Gold Clan coming as a back up, don’t falter!”

Saruhiko clenches his teeth, pausing for a second to remember the layout of the block. The Strain is unexpectedly fast—enough for him to be a problem even to Munakata—and he can go even through solid metal walls. There’s no way they’ll catch up to him before he can reach the main road and mingle with other people. If that happened, there’s no way they can chase him further, not with the risk of killing or injuring civillians.

He’s going to have to cut his path.

“He’s going through buildings!” He hears Benzai shouting through the communicator. “Southeast!”

“Block the way to the main road!” he orders, and forces himself to run. Munakata’s already gone, he’s probably airborne and tracking the Strain movement from above. “Don’t let him reach the main road!”

“She just turned south!”

Saruhiko growls and forces himself to run faster. There’s a rather broad alleyway that the Strain should stumble into if he keeps  going that way, an alleyway that would lead straight to the main road, and Saruhiko’s only chance is to cut his path there. His arm is throbbing, but he doesn’t have time for that. He rounds another building, mentally reviewing the block layout, and turns right into an alleyway that should lead straight into the Strain’s path.

He hears the scream even before he sees the Strain, and knows he’s late.

“Fuck,” he curses, and skids into a stop as he lands his eyes on the Strain, now holding a little girl captive. The Strain grins, hands and clothes bloodied like he’s just went through a river of blood, and Saruhiko wonders how many people he’d killed to get here. The little girl is shaking, her face an utter terror, and fuck if the Strain wasn’t obviously enjoying it.

The little girl looks up at him, frightened and helpless and pleading eyes, and Saruhiko for a second remembers the time when they saved Anna from the facility.

“You don’t want her hurt, do you?” The Strain snarls. “Get out of my way.”

Saruhiko narrows his eyes, but before he can even open his mouth to answer, there’s a blur of white and orange and red, slamming into the Strain from behind with enough force to knock him forward three steps and away from the little girl. The little girl shrieks, falls to her knees as all strength leaves her, but the Strain is already moving forward, even as Saruhiko realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach that it’s Misaki—

“Don’t threaten girls—much less little girls, you dumb fuck!”

—who’s flipping up his skateboard to shield him and the little girl as the Strain’s hand reaches out—

“NO!”

The hand goes right through the skateboard, and blood sprays everywhere as it pierces Misaki’s chest.

Misaki shatters into red.

The little girl falls unconscious.

Saruhiko can’t move, because Misaki’s color turns exceptionably bright and terribly beautiful.

The Strain cackles, and that is the last sound he makes before Munakata’s aura blows him into pieces.

**——-o0o——-**

His world has narrowed down into the bloodied figure of his Misaki on the ground, because really,  _what else matters_?

Misaki blinks up slowly at him, mouth twitching into a half-grin even as Saruhiko pulls him into his arms, ignoring the spiking pain of his broken arm when he does so. His throat hurts, like he’s just swallowed a handful of sand, and he belatedly realizes that he’s been screaming. His left hand hovers above Misaki’s chest. There’s a hole there, dark and pouring blood, and Misaki’s choking on his own blood, red mingling with black and dark brown, and it’s so beautiful. It’s so beautiful that Saruhiko wants to cry.

Misaki’s color shines, blinding and gorgeous.

“What the fuck—“ Saruhiko grits out, “were you thinking?!” He shakes his head, wipes the blood on Misaki’s cheek only to smear it even further. Misaki’s eyes flutter, eyes unfocused, but his hand raises up to clutch on Saruhiko’s uniform weakly. He coughs, wet with blood, and Saruhiko chokes on his next words. “You have your limits, Misaki! You don’t have you powers anymore—why do you have to keep fucking around?!”

“Hurts,” Misaki’s eyes trails up and catches Saruhiko’s, heavy and exhausted. Saruhiko shakes him once, and Misaki lets out an agonized scream that makes Saruhiko freeze.

“Misaki—“ he breathes, panicking as Misaki chokes on blood, and more red blooms on his chest. “Misaki, no, look at me, no—“ he closes his eyes, tightens his hold. “Fucking look at me, just this once!”

“…’mbass..” Misaki coughs out. “…I..always do…”

“What—“ Saruhiko pauses, eyes wide, but Misaki’s coughing again and everything is red, red, red—everything’s terribly beautiful and slowly fading.

He’s scared.

Misaki tugs weakly at him. Saruhiko sees the shock settling, turning Misaki’s eyes into confused orbs, even as his eyebrows taut and he struggles to speak.

“Oi, Saru,” he breathes out, the words fading into nothingness once they leave his lips. “Is my red… bright enough for you?”

He feels cold.

“Idiot,” Saruhiko says, lets a tear falls down his left eye. “Your color. Always the most vibrant. Never fade. No matter what color they are.”

For a while, Misaki looks at him blankly, like he’s trying to grasp what Saruhiko means, and when he smiles, it’s with a sense of contentment that Saruhiko can’t understand.

“I’m glad...”

“Misaki—“ Saruhiko says, but there are hands, prying him off Misaki, pulling him away, and Saruhiko scrabbles at them, digs his nails hard enough to draw blood, but the hands are relentless. He shouts, curses a blue streak, swings his broken arm and ignores the excruciating pain that explodes because of it. He hazily hears Munakata’s voice snapping out orders, but that’s not important, because Misaki’s still there, broken and covered in red, and even though his color shines so brightly, it’s slowly fading—

He reaches out, manages to get Misaki’s hand into his own, and refuses to let go. It’s cold and heavy, and Misaki isn’t supposed to be cold, he’s never even warm under Saruhiko’s fingers, he’s always burning. He wants to pull Misaki’s body back into his arms, but the people with rabbit masks are kneeling around him and they get in Saruhiko’s way, and the arms around his shoulders are unrelenting.

“It’s okay,” an unfamiliar voice greets him as one of the Rabbits turn to him. “We can save him.”

**——-o0o———**

When the arms around his shoulders let go, Misaki is still covered in red, but his chest rises and falls as he breathes.

The warmth returns. Slowly, slowly. Saruhiko shatters into relieved sobs.

“He’s warm,” he whispers, crawls forward to take Misaki’s other hand and brushes his lips against it. He draws him close, curls his body around Misakilike a protective cocoon. “He’s warm. He’s warm.”

He doesn’t let go of Misaki even as more hands coax him to get up, to move, and the next thing he notices is the white walls and sterile smell of a hospital, and he’s sitting outside Awashima’s room alone.

**——-o0o——-**

“Get changed, Fushimi-kun,” Munakata says. Saruhiko spares him a glance, takes in his still flawless appearance even after everything, and remembers Mikoto’s blood on Munakata’s uniform after Ashinaka High incident.

Then he looks down, fixes his eyes at his ruined uniform, and says, “I should get a new one.”

Munakata hands him a paper bag. “There is a new uniform in there. You might also want to report to Awashima-kun.”

Saruhiko clicks his tongue. “She’s not even fit to start working on paperwork yet.”

Munakata gives him a slight smile. “Humor her. She loves formalities.”

Saruhiko doesn’t throw away the ruined uniform. He folds it neatly and places it into the paper bag, ignoring the thick red seeping into the brown paper. He brings it as he comes into Awashima’s room, keeps it in his arms, but Awashima doesn’t comment on it. Instead her eyes softens a little, and she says, “I will have you do my… ah, special tasks, until I am fit to leave the hospital, Fushimi.”

Saruhiko raises an eyebrow.

“You will have to keep Kusanagi Izumo informed of what happened regarding Yatagarasu.” She pauses. “And keep an eye on Yata Misaki while you’re on that.”

Saruhiko says flatly, “are you sure you’re unfit to leave the hospital yet.”

She smiles. “At least for another three months.”

**——-o0o——-**

When he comes into Misaki’s room, the shorter boy is awake.

“You’re an idiot,” Saruhiko says, ignoring how his voice catches on his throat. “Kusanagi-san is going to chew you alive.”

The corner of Misaki’s mouth twitch as he reaches out for Saruhiko’s hand. “I’m made of fucking strong stuff, dumbass.”

Saruhiko steps closer. Misaki’s voice is weak, but he’s bright—his color is still wrong, but it doesn’t fade. It shines amongst the stark white of hospital’s sheets and walls, blinding and gorgeous, and he watches the spectrum glows before his eyes, strong and lovely.

“You’re blinding.”

Misaki grins. “Aren’t I?”

Misaki’s color is still wrong, Saruhiko thinks as he sits down on the edge of the bed, because he’s still lost. He’s still looking for a place to belong, the way HOMRA had been for him. But Saruhiko knows he’s always going to try to be that place, somewhere Misaki could come home to, the way Misaki has always been to Saruhiko. In the mean time, he can watch over Misaki’s color to make sure it shines just as bright in his world, even if the color is still wrong, because it is no less gorgeous.

“…hey,” Misaki says, a hand reaching up to touch Saruhiko’s broken arm, now in sling. “Don’t cry.”

Saruhiko makes a face and clicks his tongue. “I’m not.”

“You look like you’re going to,” Misaki chuckles, his breath fogging up the oxygen mask. Saruhiko wants to kiss him, but he can’t, so he leans down and presses their foreheads together, and then their noses.

“Hey, I’m fucking okay, dumbass.”

“Don’t fade,” Saruhiko whispers, closes his eyes because it’s too embarrassing, but he needs to say that after everything. He feels Misaki tense under his touch, feels Misaki’s eyelashes brushes his cheeks, and he repeats, “don’t fade.”

Misaki’s arms come up to wind around his shoulders,  and Saruhiko lets himself drown in colors.

**——-o0ofinitoo0o——-**


End file.
